


The Adventure Of The Insane Duellist (1899)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [175]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cornwall, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Threats, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 21:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A Cornish case involving love, madness and murder, where a man's death went unavenged and yet justice was done.





	The Adventure Of The Insane Duellist (1899)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as ‘the case of Isadora Persano, who was found stark staring mad with a matchbox in front of him which contained a remarkable worm said to be unknown to science'.  
> 

Our train clanked to a halt with a mournful, almost human sigh at Platform One of Tavistock Station. We had taken the London and South Western Railway from Waterloo, and now faced a carriage ride of about seven miles to Hotspur’s Farm, on the outskirts of the village of Harrowbarrow.

Though it was a pleasant summer’s day and I was happy to be away from the heat of the city, I cannot deny that I always felt a hint of nervousness when venturing into country areas, given Sherlock's and my relationship. Victorians as a whole were far more tolerant than those of subsequent generations made them out to be, but I suspected that those in country areas would, in all probability, be more likely to express disapproval or outright hostility to what Sherlock and I had, or for that matter to anything out of the ordinary. Attitudes in the country tended to be rather different.  
   
Just how different, I was about to find out.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We had come west at the request of the ubiquitous Mr. Bacchus Holmes (in letter thankfully, rather than in person; he was still not welcome at 221B) to investigate the strange case of the famous duellist, Mr. Isadora Persano. The young gentleman – he was just turned twenty-five - had been committed to a local asylum, much to the shock of the many who knew him. And since said young gentleman was a personal friend of King Charles the First of Portugal, and had been rankly inconsiderate enough to go mad on English soil, it was deemed imperative that the circumstances of his malady be clarified as soon as possible.  
   
Our hosts were Clesek and Charlotte Trevelyan, an Anglo-Cornish name pairing which I thought appropriate bearing in mind this area, between the Tamar and Lynher valleys, had changed ownership between England and Cornwall more than once. Also in the house was Mrs. Trevelyan's unmarried brother, Carantok Poldark, who (and I would never have said this out loud without getting some blue-eyed person's sanction) was one of the most attractive young men upon whom I have ever set eyes. He had an almost wraith-like appearance, and I was reminded of the associations between this ancient western land and the fairy folk, the legends of King Arthur, the....

I really needed to improve my literary choices!  
   
“This is a sad case”, Clesek Trevelyan said, once we had had a bounteous dinner (it had been totally uncalled for of a certain blue-eyed genius to snigger when I had had to undo a button on my waistcoat). “But it had been coming for some time. At least poor Dory survived.”  
   
That had been the other matter in this case, namely the death of a local landowner, one Mr. Simon Taylor. He had been the owner of Hingston Hall, the largest house in the district. Perhaps typically, the London press had almost overlooked his passing in favour of covering the exotic foreigner’s attack of madness. Such were the vagaries of a modern media.  
   
“I wonder if I might be allowed to visit him in Larnsen”, Carantok Poldark muttered. I looked at him in surprise.  
   
“Where is that?” I asked. I knew the area vaguely because one of my more garrulous patients had come from here.  
   
“It’s the town to the north, spelt Laun-ces-ton, but pronounced ‘Larnsen’ down here”, his brother-in-law explained. “Doctor Frinton – he was there when it all happened – I understand that he has some concerns about the running of the asylum down in Plymouth, so chose to take the man there instead. Poor Dory went voluntarily, or at least as voluntarily as someone in his state could.”

“We must see this doctor and obtain his version of the events that fateful evening”, Sherlock said. “Everyone sees things from a different angle, so he may have something to add. Pray, tell us how it all began.”

Was it my imagination, or did our three hosts glance quickly at each other before Clesek Trevelyan spoke?  
   
“Dory – Mr. Isadora Persano – is not the sort of person that you can easily ignore”, he said carefully. “He tended to either be liked or hated; I do not think 'hate' is too strong a term for some people’s reaction to him. It did not help that he always made quite clear his indifference towards such opinions, which only served to further rile his detractors. I know many will say it was just because he is a foreigner, but there was more too it, although…”  
   
His wife reached a comforting hand across the table to him,  
   
“I think that you should tell our friends everything, Cles”, she said quietly. The man nodded, took a deep breath and ploughed on.

“The late Mr. Simon Taylor was a bad man”, he said, “though I suppose that I should not speak ill of the dead. He owned a road which I had to use to access the buildings at the back of the farm, and used that as an excuse to keep coming round here. He, um, he liked Cary.”

They were clearly embarrassed at the way that the conversation was headed. Sherlock placed his hand over mine and smiled at them.

“Given who you are currently hosting in your home, that is not an issue”, he said. “Pray continue.”  
   
“I hated him!” Carantok Poldark said firmly, “and I did nothing to encourage his attentions. But he would not take no for an answer.”

“And then Dory happened on the scene”, his brother-in-law continued. “He has made his reputation for fighting battles for the oddest of reasons, and for some reason he took it into his head to come to Cary's defence…..”  
   
“One moment”, Sherlock said. “There is something missing here. How did a famous duellist who is friends with the King of Portugal end up visiting somewhere as quiet and remote as this locality?”  
   
The looks on all three faces suggested quite clearly that they had been hoping to avoid that question. It was Carantok Poldark who spoke.  
   
“My sister and I went down to Plymouth to see an exhibition of paintings, which was touring the country from London”, he explained. “I love art, always have done. Dory had arrived off the boat from Lisbon and was planning to travel up to Bristol the next day, so he attended the exhibition too. We, um, we met.”  
   
I smiled inwardly at the picture. The dashing, gallant young Iberian meeting the ethereally beautiful country bumpkin purely by chance, and falling in love. It was all rather charming. I may or may not have sniffed.  
   
“I am to take it that Mr. Persano did not proceed to Bristol as planned?” Sherlock asked, shooting me a sideways glance.  
   
“It was all right and proper”, Charlotte Trevelyan said, a little defensively. “Isadora is fabulously wealthy, so it was easy for him to rent a small cottage in the village. He did not have his own valet, so everyone assumed that he was looking for one, and that Cary..... well, might do.”

“Of course, our Mr. Taylor did not take well to such a rival appearing on the scene, let alone a foreigner”, Clesek Trevelyan said heavily. “He threatened to stop my use of his road, which would have greatly inconvenienced us. Three days ago he called round when we were both out, and Cary told him very firmly that there could be nothing between them.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for some reason. He had spotted something in that seemingly straightforward statement, though I had no idea as to what.

“Were you here when he called?” he asked.

Again, there was a slight hesitation before Clesek Trevelyan shook his head.

“The whole business has divided the village”, Charlotte Trevelyan said, a little quickly, I thought. “Mr. Taylor owned a lot of properties around here, and the people who were dependent on him did not like Isadora at all. But he was a charming soul, and those with free will liked him a lot. We all did.”

Her brother blushed.

“I told Dory that I was prepared to be with him”, he said carefully. “He said that he would rather stay here, if that was what I wanted. That was two days ago. Yesterday he was invited up to the Hall for dinner, which alarmed me somewhat, although there were some other guests there as well.”

“Now we approach the meat of the problem”, Sherlock said. “Who were they, please?”

“Doctor Frinton, as already mentioned”, Charlotte Trevelyan said. “Mr. Taylor's daughter and heiress to the estate, Miss Clara. Lord Linnaker, the second-most important landowner in the district, who was paying court to Miss Clara, successfully I might add. And Miss Sally, Mr. Taylor's sister. She is actually co-owner of the estate, but I understand that the inheritance rules only allow her to draw an income, not to play any part in the running of its affairs, and that she cannot pass on her half of it to anyone. It has to remain in the family.”

“Mr. Holmes needs more than that”, her husband said. “Doctor Frinton is in his sixties, close to retiring if he can find someone to buy out his practice. Miss Clara is seventeen and quite headstrong; like her aunt, the estate rules prevent her too from taking any part in estate affairs, and I rather think that she resents that. Mr. Taylor's late father was strongly against women having any say in business matters on principle. Also, Miss Clara is only the heiress because there are no more male-line Taylors; if Lord Taylor were to have married and have produced a male heir, then she would have been disinherited. And her aunt's income would, I believe, have been greatly reduced.”

That seemed strange, I thought. Presumably if Mr. Taylor had been able to pursue young Mr. Poldark, then there would of course be no heir, and all those people would benefit from that fact.

“Lord Linnaker is another unpleasant fellow”, Carantok Poldark said with a shudder. “He is just turned eighteen; his father died six years ago, and an uncle ran the estate in the meanwhile. I am only glad that I did not have to suffer his attentions as well as Mr. Taylor's. Although Miss Clara is almost as bad. Those two are well-matched!”

“I only know what little I have heard from local gossip about what happened at the dinner”, Clesek Trevelyan said. “I think it would be best if you were to approach Doctor Frinton for the full details. He is good with facts, and he was actually there.”

+~+~+

Although he was friendly enough when he greeted us at his surgery the following day, I thought that I could detect a hint of wariness in the elderly doctor's demeanour. Possibly he was against us having been called in on what he regarded as 'his case'; some doctors were territorial like that. Although to be fair, the way I had almost snarled at the barmaid when she had given Sherlock a come-hither look in the pub the previous evening, I was probably not in much of a position to complain! What with no less than four women simpering at him, it had been an irksome evening.

He had made it up to me later, though. I smiled inwardly at the memory.

“It is all very sad”, the doctor said ruefully. “Close communities like this can be wonderful places in which to live and work, but when you get divisions and arguments, they are so much more intense.”

“Please tell us precisely what happened that fateful evening”, Sherlock said. The doctor took out a notebook.

“I wrote everything down immediately after it all happened”, he said, “because I knew, given the circumstances, that there would have to be some sort of investigation. Of course hardly anyone in the village really knew just how famous our Mr. Persano was during his brief stay here, which was probably just as well.”

“Dinner itself passed off fairly uneventfully, after which Lord Linnaker had to leave to meet his brother off the train from Plymouth”, he continued. “That was about seven o'clock, and it was just getting dark outside. The remaining five of us – myself, Isadora, Mr, Taylor, Miss Sally, and Miss Clara – adjourned for coffee. Conversations were polite if a little stilted; there was a definite air of tension in the room between our host and Isadora. The ladies adjourned to their own room at just after half-past seven; the clock was striking the half-hour as they left the room.”

“It must have been shortly before eight that Mr. Taylor asked Isadora if he could discuss some matter with him. They went to the smoking-room, which is sort of next door to the lounge where the rest of us remained.”

“Sort of?” I asked, puzzled.

“The intervening room is used as a large cupboard”, the doctor explained, “although it does have its own access to the corridor. I remember that the two men went out into the corridor and into the smoking-room that way, which I thought a little unusual as the corridor was cold. The Hall does not heat up very well, I should explain. Less than five minutes later – I remember the clock in the corner striking the hour in the interim – I heard the sound of a furious argument. Two things then happened almost simultaneously. First, there was a strange hissing sound from their room, which must have been loud to have penetrated through the intervening room, small though it is. It sounded more like gas escaping that an animal noise, I thought at the time. And second, which I thought even more odd, _both_ men screamed.”

“Screamed?” Sherlock inquired.

“They were definitely screams, I would say of fear”, the doctor said firmly. “I of course ran over to the door, and gained access through the intervening room within a minute, I would say. Possibly less. When I entered, I noticed several things in quick succession. Firstly, Mr. Taylor lay dying on the fireside rug, his body bleeding heavily. Secondly, there was a strong and unpleasant smell in the air, almost acidic; it made my eyes water, so I made haste to open the window in the room, then went to the door out into the corridor. The noise had alerted both the ladies, from their room across the way, and some of the servants. I instructed the ladies to return to their room, and told Janet, the maid, to fetch the two footmen, James and John.”

He paused in his narrative, which allowed me to catch up with my notes.

“Thirdly”, he said ominously, “ Isadora was sat at the table, a look of complete rapture on his face, and a match-box was set before him. And fourth and perhaps importantly, the door to the billiard-room on the other side of the smoking-room was slightly ajar. I should add that that room, unlike the one that they were in, has a balcony.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment.

“What did you do next?” he asked. 

“I checked Mr. Taylor to see how he was, but it was clear that there was nothing more that I could do for him”, the doctor said. “He had been stabbed, almost certainly with the blooded dagger that lay next to him; I had not seen that as it lay the other side from where I had entered the room. Then I turned to Isadora, who was docile enough, and when the footmen came they took him to another room, John remaining with him just in case. I must tell you, gentlemen, that that smile on his face as he left – it terrified me! James I had sent for the police, Constable Penruth, down in the village.”

“Did you examine the match-box?” Sherlock asked.

“I did”, the doctor said, “and the contents certainly surprised me. It was a toy rubber worm, the sort one sometimes finds in Christmas crackers. Someone must have folded it very tightly to fit it into the match-box, possibly as a practical joke as I am sure that it would have sprung out at me had I not been opening the thing carefully.”

“Not the source of the strange odour, then”, Sherlock remarked. The doctor shook his head.

“I myself think that that had been caused by something thrown into the fire”, he said, scratching his short beard. “That is pure speculation on my part, but I did notice that the smell was stronger when I was examining Mr. Taylor's body next to the fire. If it had not been for the open door to the billiard-room, I would have surmised that Mr. Taylor tried to suffocate his rival by throwing some toxic chemical on the fire and holding him close to it, only for Isadora to stab him in self-defence. But that too is pure speculation on my part.”

“Did the constable find anything when he examined the room later?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing in the room itself”, the doctor said, “but the balcony door out of the billiard-room was unlocked, which was strange. I know for a fact that Mr. Taylor always kept his doors locked, after someone had broken into one of his out-buildings last year.”

“Were there finger-prints on the dagger?” I asked.

“Yes”, the doctor said. “But not Isadora's, as one might have expected. They were those of the victim!”

“Most intriguing”, Sherlock said. “You are perhaps fortunate, doctor?”

“Pardon?”

“All the other diners that evening seemingly had some degree of motive to wish Mr. Taylor out of this world, except your good self”, Sherlock said reasonably. “Mr. Persano to dispose of a rival in his affections, and the dead man's sister and daughter to gain control of their funds. Only you had nothing to gain.” He paused before adding, “seemingly.”

 _How did he do that?_ The doctor blushed fiercely.

“Doctor?” Sherlock prodded gently.

“I am sure that your investigations would have unearthed this eventually”, he said ruefully. “Carantok Poldark is my godson, and as I have no children or siblings, we are very close. Mr. Taylor had asked me to use that relationship to advance his cause, and I had of course refused. We had angry words as a result.”

“When was that?” Sherlock asked.

“Three days before his death.”

Ah.

+~+~+

Before leaving the house, Sherlock spoke briefly to one of the house-maids, though he did not tell me why. We then called on Constable Penruth, who was keen and (like too many policemen nowadays) depressingly young. 

“I examined the Hall immediately I got there”, he told us, “but it was dark by that time, and I could find nothing. I went back at first light the following morning however, and found a set of tracks leading from the billiard-room door to the door in the back garden wall.”

Sherlock looked hard at him. The constable sighed. 

“All right”, he said heavily. “As well as the tracks, there were marks as well. That suggested someone walking with a stick, so naturally I thought of the doctor. Especially as the boots were an eight, his size.”

“Or someone who wished to throw suspicion on him”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Most interesting. But you found something else too, did you not?”

Damnation, he was good!

“I took prints from everyone in the house for the records”, the constable admitted. “At least, that was what I told them. I am sure you know about the dagger, sirs. There was also a set of prints on the door-handle of the billiard-room, so I hoped to match them with the killer, whoever they were.”

“Did they match?” I asked.

“Oh yes”, he said heavily. “They matched perfectly. They were Mr. Taylor's own, as well!”

+~+~+

“This case makes no sense!” I grumbled. “A man invites his love rival into a room, the rival goes mad, the man goes into and out of the next room before stabbing himself, someone from outside gets in and out.... it is totally incredible!”

“We need to see Mr. Persano”, Sherlock said. “And in the circumstances, I think that we should not see him alone.”

I looked at him in surprise.

+~+~+

The following day the two of us, along with Carantok Poldark and Doctor Frinton, took a carriage to Launceston Asylum, where after an almost brutal interrogation from a huge Matron (who still simpered at Sherlock, damn her!), we were allowed to see the patient. 

Mr. Isadora Persano was (yes, I asked Sherlock to let me say it) also a beautiful man, but in a very different way from Carantok Poldark. The Portuguese was dark-haired, hawk-faced, and had an intelligent look about him that made me feel almost fearful. He smiled almost beatifically when he saw Carantok, and kissed his cheek whilst just shaking hands with the rest of us, but he did not speak.

“We are here today to discuss the murder of Mr. Simon Taylor”, Sherlock said, seating himself at the table with the rest of us. I sat next to him, Mr. Persano was opposite us, and Doctor Frinton and Carantok Poldark sat on either side of us.

“Murder?” the doctor questioned. “Not suicide?”

“You should know”, Sherlock said quietly. “You were one of the people who killed him.”

I noticed that Carantok Poldark reached over and placed a restraining hand on Mr. Persano's wrist. The duellist twitched, but remained silent.

“There was one small piece of information that you held back from your story, doctor”, Sherlock said. “You did not tell us that when you attended dinner that evening, you took your medical bag with you. My friend here is fond of his profession, but even he does not take his bag to social events. The maid confirmed my suspicion, which clearly showed pre-meditation on your part.”

“Sir....” Doctor Frinton began.

“I know why you did it”, Sherlock said, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence of the overly large room. “Because you were not the only one to withhold information in this case. _Was he, Mr. Poldark?”_

The boy blushed. Mr. Persano reached over to take his hand, and glared at Sherlock. I shuddered at the anger in those dark brown eyes, and wished that I had brought my gun with me.

“I will tell you what actually happened that evening”, Sherlock said, “and then I will tell you what I intend to do about it. The doctor's story was true up to the part about the ladies leaving for their own room at just after half-past seven, but what happened next was very different. Because it involved pre-meditated, cold-blooded murder!”

+~+~+

“One of the many advantages of working with a doctor is that one becomes cognizant of certain useful pieces of information. For example, I happen to know that doctors now have access to a new type of cream which can be used to cover scarring quite effectively. The only drawback, as such, is that it leaves a strong scent behind it, a mixture of mint and vanilla. It was clear to me, very soon after meeting you Mr. Poldark, that you were using such a cream, yet I saw no reason for it. Just how had you acquired those marks that you were so careful to cover up?”

Carantok Poldark let out something that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Mr. Persano left his chair and moved round behind him, embracing him protectively. I knew not only that this man was far, far from insane, but also that he would kill to protect his love. I moved instinctively closer to Sherlock, though whether for his protection or mine I knew not.

“We need not disturb Mr. Poldark any further by dwelling on those events”, Sherlock continued. “It was done, and Mr. Taylor doubtless expected that the man he had so brutally taken to 'come to heel'. Instead, the rapist paid for his foul deed with his life.”

“Once the ladies are safely gone, Mr. Persano and Doctor Frinton deal swiftly with Mr Taylor. I would hazard that chloroform was the method used, as they would wish the doomed man to know the reason for his death, and to suffer beforehand, as he had made poor Mr. Poldark suffer. The torture – let us call it that, for that is what it was – lasted for half an hour, before the stage was set for the death of a rapist.”

I shuddered again at that dreadful word.

“Mr. Persano has already laid a set of tracks to the back wall earlier that day, most probably by arriving a little early and walking around the garden for some fresh air. The time is now eight o'clock, and he and the doctor are ready for the final dénouement. The door to the billiard-room and that room's door outside are both unlocked, which with the tracks will suggest an outside killer. The semi-conscious man is dragged to the door, and his prints placed on the door-handle, further confusing matters. Mr. Taylor is then stabbed with the dagger by Mr. Persano. The weapon goes into the doctor's bag – for who would think of asking to look there? - and a second one, once Mr. Taylor's own prints have been impressed onto it, is inserted into the wound and then placed next to the dying man. Confusion, confusion, confusion!”

“Mr. Persano then takes his position at the table, the match-box with a child's toy placed in front of him. Once the doctor is assured that Mr. Taylor is going to bleed to death, he and Mr. Persano both scream out, and moments later he appears at the door of the dead man's room – the room of the man he has just helped to kill. I would venture to add that the door was probably locked on the inside to prevent anyone from gaining access too soon. Mr. Persano, who has clearly been driven mad by the fumes from the fire – a chemical kindly supplied by his true love's godfather – is then taken away, and the house falls silent.”

Carantok Poldark sniffed mournfully.

“And we would do it again, for my Cary!” Mr. Persano spoke at last, sounding defiant. “That man was not fit to breathe free air!”

“What do you intend to do?” Doctor Frinton asked anxiously. Sherlock rose to his feet.

“Legally, Mr. Taylor was guilty only on a count of rape, serious enough as that is”, he said slowly. “However, it had been made patently clear to him that Mr. Poldark here was not his and never would be, and moreover, that he wished to become the love of Mr. Persano. Mr. Taylor chose to ignore that fact, and he paid the due price. Had anyone threatened someone I loved in that way – well, I too have known what it is to have to protect someone whom I love. There is no length, up to and including murder, to which one is not prepared to go.”

He smiled at me, then turned to the duellist.

“Mr. Persano, I wish you well for the future. I do advise, however, that your recovery is not _too_ fast, as people may talk. Perhaps a prolonged stay in a nice, remote Cornish farmhouse would be beneficial to your health?”

He bowed to the three men and left, with me scuttling after him.

+~+~+

“We have effectively covered up a murder”, I said, looking out of the window of our first-class carriage. I turned round to say something else – and froze.

Sherlock was rapidly removing his clothes.

“I thought we might try to create some happier memories of the West Country”, he said with a smirk. “If, of course, someone in his late forties is up to such a thing....?”

I growled, and quickly began to divest myself of my clothes. His own happy growling at the sight made me hard almost immediately, which I was quite proud of having achieved for someone of my advanced years.....

Sherlock had pulled the arm-rests on my side of the carriage up, and almost instinctively I lay face down on them, whining in anticipation. He quickly positioned himself above me, then the bastard began rutting against my crack, nibbling at my neck at one and the same time.

“Take me, my love!” I almost snarled.

And in the name of all that was holy, he did, fingering me open with almost obscene speed before pushing steadily home, until he was nestled inside of me, his long lithe body resting on top of mine. I sighed contentedly, wishing that we could stay like this forever.

“Only as far as Exeter”, he muttered, showing that freaky mind-reading skill of his.

“I love you”, I said. “Make me yours, my love.”

He tensed, and I knew that he was thinking of the case just gone.

“You are no Mr. Taylor”, I said firmly. “I am yours, Sherlock Holmes, far more than any man ever belonged to any other. Now, take me again!”

And with a possessive growl he did, thrusting right against my prostate and biting a claiming-mark into my neck at one and the same time. I came violently, overwhelmed with sensation. I wanted to belong to this man in every way that was physically possible, to be as one with him for the rest of our natural lives together.

+~+~+

I may have had to hobble a bit when we changed trains at Exeter, but it was worth it. Especially when I discovered that he had been wearing a plug all this time, and was ready for me to return the favour all (most of) the way back to London, which I was more than happy to do. Though I was grateful that we went via the Great Western, for it meant that the intensely painful cab-ride back to Baker Street was that much shorter! And the bastard still looked totally unaffected by our couplings, damn him!

+~+~+

From one end of the country to the other; Cornwall to Caithness. Our next case takes us to the very Far North of Scotland, and Sherlock first thrills and then abandons me.


End file.
